Explorations in Exile
by Elmion
Summary: Riven and Ezreal have a conversation over dinner. Maybe a one-shot. Maybe Riven/Ezreal. Maybe Ezreal/Lux. Maybe not.
1. dinner

Riven's fire crackled as the sole source of light in that dark forest, coloring the leaves, twigs and treebarks orange and yellow. The exile leaned back and enjoyed the warmth, meager as it was. After all, no matter how small the flame, given enough time a fish will surely cook over it.

The problem, right now as always, was that she had more than just _a_ fish. But the sound of leaves being crushed in a familiar rhythm eased her concern. She could almost hear his gait, relaxed and easy, yet confident, approaching this unknown brightness without even the slightest hint of worry. But it wasn't exactly unknown to him, and neither was he to her.

And sure enough, Ezreal stepped into view to witness an abundance of fish. He raised an eyebrow. "Were you expecting me?"

"No, just knew I could count on you," Riven said, with nonchalance that would be unknown to her just a year ago.

"That's the exact same thing," Ezreal sat down opposite her, not quite complaining. "So. Let's see here. I see fish, fish, fish and fish. Gah, you need to balance your diet."

"You saying I'm getting fat?"

"Riv, your abdominal muscles are as shapely as always, but eating too much fish will slow down your blood clotting, thus making you more likely to bleed to death. I saw it happen once, in the north. One native cut his arm on a trap deep below. Died three days later," Ezreal stared into the fire.

Riven knew that look. It was the look he had when he discussed grave matters, when he told grim stories of death and decay, when he acknowledged that the world is callous and cruel and does not care about the fates of its inhabitants. "Lux bothering you?" she asked, picking at a dry leaf. "Or are you bothering her?"

Ezreal should be horrified that _Riven_ of all people was able to guess this, but then those years spent together in a baptism of fire surely had left their mark. So he didn't ask, "Was it that obvious?" Instead he murmured, "Dozens of labyrinths and traps I have survived, and still I find no mystery more befuddling than a woman's heart."

"It's not mysterious at all, Ez. Stab it and she dies," Riven studied the fishes. They should be done soon.

Ezreal suffered her smartassery, for it was he who taught her that forbidden art. He continued, "She said that she never felt I was there."

"She has a point. When you're not risking life and limb in some dark sewer tunnel, you come to me for dinner."

"It's not what she said, it's more like how she said it," Ezreal ignored her. "She sounded so angry, as if I never told her this would happen. I warned her from the beginning: I can't always be there for you. And then she goes on complaining about exactly that."

Riven shrugged. "She expected better of you. Have some," she offered him a fish.

If words had an index of stinging efficiency, Riven's would be up there with the bullet ants in the Kalamanda ruins. Ezreal took the food from her nevertheless.

"You'd expect, after going through all that, things would be easier," he said in contemplation, halfway through his second fish.

By 'that', of course, he was referring to that period of time which they agreed to never discuss again. And like many things that tried to tell Ezreal not to do something, the agreement rarely worked.

"It never does, huh," Riven said in earnest.

"Was it this hard when you were with Joshua?" he asked her, and Riven could tell how he wanted her to say yes. Then he can believe that it will all work out in the end.

She chuckled and said, "We had our moments."

They let the silence in, and ate in the comfort of each others' presence. Then Ezreal broke it by saying, "I just realized how much I want to make this...work. You know. Take off. Bloom. Or whatever it is that normal relationships do."

Riven chewed thoughtfully. "It will, in the end. Relax, I'll help you."

"And what if it's really a lost cause?" the prodigal explorer asked.

At that moment Riven was reminded that she was one of his closest friends, one of the select few people whom he showed this utterly human side of him. Then in a snide comment that more or less sealed their fates, she threw him a smile and offered, "We still have each other."

Ezreal grinned in a way that was quite bitter and yet cheerful.

Neither he nor Riven has any idea just how true that statement is going to be.


	2. double ace

Riven first started taking notice of Ezreal when they killed each others' entire team. Her Wind Slash didn't quite make it in time, and Ezreal just managed to channel that Trueshot Barrage. They died at the exact same second, followed by roughly 5 other people from either side. It was one of the few recorded instances of a double ace, and it became the subject of many dinner conversations (and bar fights) around Valoran for a week afterward.

As first impressions go, it wasn't bad: Ezreal had proven his strength. However, having to get along with him—with the one who just barraged her with those arrows, flashes, and razor sharp energy blade projectiles from across the battlefield—still gave her a sense of discomfort. Riven is not yet used to the fact that these champions would inflict very real pain upon one another in the name of good sport. Of course, back when she joined the league, she didn't realize she was joining exactly that: a sport. But now, even though she had, she still struggled with a few of its customs.

One of them is how Ezreal offered a handshake afterward. It took a while to understand what he had meant by "good game," but now that she's got it, she shook his hand. Such courtesy was not often shown, not towards _her_ at least (for some reason many people have issues with the summoners who like to use her), and she decided to appreciate it.

"Yes. Good game," she said. There was nothing else to say.

"You don't really belong in a museum. That's just my summoner taunting you," Ezreal smiled. His grip was firm and his words sincere.

"And a broken sword isn't enough for the likes of you."

She tried to smile back, but it had been so long since she last did it, all that came out was a little twitch at the corners of her lips. Ezreal didn't seem to mind. "Ah yes, about that, there's something I want to ask. Where did you get that sword, exactly?"

"The Noxian Command gave it to me," she said.

"Did they give it to you as an honor for services rendered?"

For being a superb exemplar of the Noxian ideal. "Yes."

This made Ezreal think. Then he said, "Did any other Noxian officer receive the sword?"

This sword was specially made for her, the handiwork of the blacksmith that respected her so much, tailored exactly to her tastes. A symbol of pure power. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Pure curiosity. So you are the only one who has received this award?"

"No. However, only I was given this sword. The others received other tokens of honor."

"I see. And how come you were the only one who got this sword?"

"No one else was strong enough to wield it."

Ezreal recalled Riven's reforged blade, which his team had learned to flee from on sight. He did not question the truth of this statement.

"You want to try holding it?"

A prodigal explorer is an adept at sensing traps. As such, Ezreal would like to make it clear that he did not miss the glint of mischief in Riven's eyes; he had simply decided to humor her, prepared for whatever surprise she had in store.

Of course it does not change the fact that her broken blade was shockingly, absurdly, stupidly heavy.

"Oh. Ouch. Wow, this _is _heavy," Ezreal said, trying to maintain his composure. He was holding it with two hands his arms trembled. It felt like a sack of rice, and this was probably only half of its original mass. Ideas of Ezreal daring other champions to armwrestle Riven and then drawing profit from the bettings started to form.

But now he had other things to do, like study the runic inscriptions on the blade itself. Fortunately, he managed to do that right before he accidentally dropped the blade on his foot.

And just as he thought she would, Riven laughed.


	3. desert

Strength prevails.

Riven began her dance, moving her sword in a horizontal arc.

Against class, against status, against wealth, against gender-strength prevails. She had lost count of how many times she had proven this right. In the streets, where every street urchin and gang leader feared her. In the academy, where she silenced her peers on the sparring grounds. In the service, where she earned the respect of veterans and superiors. In countless battles, as her weaker comrades died and were replaced.

The strong prevail-and survive.

She moved into the counterswing, her blade moving fluidly.

Was that what happened in Ionia?

The melters murdered men, women and children. They worked methodically, mechanically, like putting cattle against the chopping block. The Zaunites did not have military might, but they had knowledge to create such monstrosities. Was that strength?

Against such monstrosities, soldiers and warriors were irrelevant. Ionia met Zaun's inhuman challenge with something equally inhuman, with children assassinating soldiers; with people appearing from the shadows, like the undead. Was that strength?

Whatever it was, she and her men weren't strong enough for it, and that was the end of Fury Company.

She suppressed the turmoil within her, balancing herself on one foot and drawing back her blade to beside her head.

But for certain, the way the flesh of her comrades and her enemies melted without resistance-that is not the strength that she worshiped. Hers is fair and just. Singed's bombardment was nothing like that. It cared not for strength or merit; what they sought was death.

It was her who was mistaken all along; for what can be asked of war other than death? Noxus had promised her glory, but what glory is there in violence without good cause?

They left her for dead and gave her nothing in return. But what did she desire? What had she been fighting for, all this time? It was not fame, it was not riches. What then?

There was still no answer. Not that she expected to find one this time around.

"Riven?" a somewhat familiar voice called.

She turned. Her reaction didn't show it, but she was just as confused as Ezreal was about why there was another person here, because they're in the middle of a desert.

"You're not a hallucination," Ezreal said, approaching her in bewilderment.

The explorer glistened with sweat and she could smell him from meters away. His ragged clothes and hair spoke of his long trek in the desert. Knowing Ezreal, he probably survived longer than anyone else would have with just the single backpack that he slung over one shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" The question was impossible for him to not ask.

"Oh, I'm just meditating." came the equally impossible answer.

Ezreal, having seen various indigenous tribes, had had his share of eccentric people with eccentric habits and decided to inquire no more about that.

"How are you staying alive?" he asked instead, and on this he was genuinely curious.

There are creatures and cacti in the desert that can be good sources of food and water. With the power of ki, one can regulate body temperature and endure extreme heat and cold. Riven explained this to Ezreal, who took in everything so studiously that it was almost funny to her.

When she's finished with her explanations on how to hunt and cook desert snakes, Ezreal took another good look at her and concluded, "You're really strong, aren't you?"

"No. No I'm not." To her surprise, she answered instantly.

The hasty reply made Ezreal realize that he had touched a nerve, although he never imagined that Riven would take those words as anything else other than a compliment. She is a Noxian, after all.

Or at least she was one. Maybe that's why.

Things got awkward between them, so he decided to say something practical. "Uh, do you mind if I stick with you for the night? But it's only for safety in numbers, of course. I won't try anything strange."

"Sure," Riven said, silently thanking Ezreal for changing the subject.

Actually Ezreal viciously berated himself for that last sentence since of course Riven of all people wouldn't even consider that possibility and he was stupid for bringing it up at all. But of course, the Exile was completely unaware of this, deep in her own thoughts, lost in her own epiphany.

* * *

><p>Night came, and with it the cold. The idea of moving closer to Riven for warmth already crossed Ezreal's mind, but it remains an unthinkable proposal.<p>

It probably wasn't a good idea anyway. Riven looked like she was carved out of bone and muscle, all sharp angles and hard surfaces. There was no softness in her figure or in her personality.

There was her voice though. Every time she spoke she sounded tired, as if she had just taken the beating of her life. Whatever earned her the title of Exile, she has yet to recover from it.

And from the way she tossed and turned in her sleep, it was probably giving her nightmares.

Ezreal rolled away as to not see her. The least he could give her was privacy. There was also sympathy, but that was something she did not deserve. No matter what horrors she had experienced, they would still pale to those that she had visited upon Ionia as the Scourge of Noxus. He bears her no personal grudge for her actions, but neither does he want her to live without their consequences.

So when Riven jolted awake, he pretended to be asleep. But his ears were good, so he heard her breaths, her sobs. He could hear how she pressed her hands against her face, how she shivered with fear and cold.

It seemed that Riven would lose her sleep just as Ezreal was beginning to find his. But then she moved to him and laid down with her back touching his, fully waking Ezreal into alertness.

Still he pretended to be unaware, and Riven did in fact perceive him as such. She anchored herself to reality with his presence, because this place with the rough sand and the terrible cold was far, far better than her dreams.

Ezreal considered feeling sorry for her, then decided that he would do so if only for a little.


End file.
